


The Crownless Again Shall Be King

by Agent_Creative



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Past Abuse, direwolves, zig zag AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-07 12:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11623995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Creative/pseuds/Agent_Creative
Summary: When Ramsay Bolton tells Rickon Stark to run, Rickon knows that he must cross the field. However, he also knows that a straight line is an easy target.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon runs.

 

Prologue:

           Ramsay Bolton rode out of Winterfell on a cold morning, followed by a host of loyal bannermen, well-paid mercenaries, and lords attempting to save themselves from wrath. Beside his black destrier, a skittish mare was led along. Ramsay looked to the rider of the mare, and the boy strapped to the horse sneered at him. Ramsay only laughed, and continued on.

           By midday, the camp was set. It wasn’t much, just a few tents and some posts to tie the horses. Ramsay did not intend to stay long, just long enough to send a messenger to the bastard’s army encamped across the field.

_“Jon Snow, send me my wife, and my Reek, and I will let you return to the  Wall with your balls. Continue to fight, and you will learn why my sigil is the flayed man, and all true Starks, save one, are dead. Come fight me, or run._

_-Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North”_

           When Jon received the letter, he frowned, and handed it to his sister. Sansa Stark, usually so composed, looked sick.

           “So we must fight,” she said quietly.

           “So we fight.”

           The next few hours were a blur, on both sides. Ramsay’s men prepared for a battle they didn’t want to fight in, and the Stark army prepared for a battle they had no choice but to win. Another cold dawn, and there were ravens circling. They seemed to know that a battle was taking place. Rickon Stark was awake, he didn’t sleep the night before. How could he? At the end of the day, he would be reunited with his surviving siblings, or dead like the rest of his family. Ramsay strode toward the post where Rickon was tied, and leaned down to give a sickening smile.

           “Can’t you just wait to see your family again?” said Ramsay, all fake innocence and sweetness.

           Rickon didn’t respond. This angered Ramsay, as most things did, so he hauled the boy roughly to his feet. Rickon stood a foot taller than Ramsay, and this bothered Ramsay as well. Both mounted horses, and went to the battlefield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a work that explores what could have happened if Rickon ran differently. Other character story lines will differ, some substantially, from the season 6 and season 7. Canon, for the purpose of this work, is a mixture of book and show.  
> In addition, relationships will not be tagged until the chapter that they meet. And not all relationships are final. So, keep that in mind.


	2. Summons

Sansa I

 

There was much to be done. In the five years since Eddard and Catelyn Stark were last in Winterfell, it had been occupied by three houses, and war and winter had taken its toll on the old keep. The outer doors were in splinters, and Winter Town was part ash and part collapsed buildings. On the walls, one could see the marks from where Ramsay Bolton’s crucifixes had hung, the stone underneath was slightly paler than the rest. What had once been cobbled paths were now swamps of mud, as snow and dirt were mixed and trampled underfoot.

Sansa Stark sighed. Another lord was appealing to Jon, and this one she already knew would not get his way. A minor lord of the north, they kept on about the wildlings now south of the Wall. The lord obviously was not particularly intelligent, as he could not see that his King’s eyes were staring past his head. Sansa knew that no matter how much any lord complained, the Free Folk were here to stay. After all, they had helped reclaim Winterfell, and Jon claimed there was nowhere for them to go, what with the Night’s King ruling north of the Wall. Sansa didn’t mind them, not really. They were rough, and could be crass and violent, but they were good people underneath the ragged furs.

“The wildlings stay, my lord, until the threat beyond the wall has been dealt with,” Jon said, finally cutting off the prattling lord.

“Your Grace.” The lord seemed put out, and bowed out of the hall. Jon put his head in his hands and sighed loudly.

“How do I explain to these people that what we are facing is greater than any of us?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know. But they will believe you when they see it, after we march north,” replied Sansa. A light snort sounded in the hall, and Jon and Sansa looked over at their little brother. Rickon Stark was asleep in his chair, and looked as if he had been asleep for years, no sign of the troubles ahead of them or behind them on his young face.

“You know,” started Jon, “I forget sometimes how young he really is. He’s taller than me, and he is only 13. He is lucky, I think. He doesn’t remember all that he lost.”

Sansa’s reply was interrupted by Davos Seaworth walking through the open door. He turned around, a scroll one hand, and closed the door with the other.

“I’m afraid the audiences are over for the day,” Davos said with his gruff voice, “The maester brought it to me, as you were occupied, and I brought it here as soon as possible.”

“What is it now?” asked Jon.

Davos said nothing, only handed the raven scroll to his king. Jon looked at the seal, and inhaled sharply. The three-headed dragon looked back at him, staring at him from the black wax as if accusing him of something. He shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind, and broke the seal. He began to read aloud:

           _“To Jon Snow, King in the North:_

_It has been a long time since we last saw each other, bastard. It seems that both of us have risen high. Come to Dragonstone, and bend the knee, and your war shall have the aid of three dragons, an army of Unsullied, and a Dothraki khalasar. It would be nice to talk to you again, at any rate._

_-Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains”_

Sansa looked concerned and amused all at once. “It seems my lord husband has risen high,” she said with what seemed like pride. “Hand to the mother of dragons, he seems to have found someone who is better than Joffrey to serve.”

“You seem to know a lot about this new queen,” said Jon, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

“In the Vale, and on our way here, Littlefinger often got ravens from one place or another, informing him of anyone who was doing anything modestly important. He received many ravens about her,” Sansa replied.

“What did you hear?” asked Davos, always suspicious.

“I heard of a woman who stepped into the funeral pyre of her husband and emerged the next morning with dragons sucking at her breasts. I heard of a woman who led loyal Dothraki across the Red Waste, to Quarth. I heard of a woman who freed slaves in Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen, and has been trying to keep them free, against every effort of the men who ruled in those cities. I heard of a woman who lost her father, mother, brother, niece, and nephew before she was born, and of a woman who watched her brother die after threatening her and her child. I heard of a woman who buried her dead child, and continued on.”

“It sounds like you admire her Sansa,” said Jon.

“She is a lot like us, in some ways, and she reminds me of what I want to be,” Sansa said simply.

“So you think I should go, and bend the knee? The Northern lords would not allow it, there would be a revolt on our hands.” Jon was thinking out loud, and Sansa could see the emotions clearly on his usually stoic face. He didn’t want to be king, hell, he didn’t even want to be a lord. But he was his father’s son, and duty came before want every time.

“Go. You must. She has three large dragons, if the stories are true, and I believe them. You said yourself that white walkers could only be killed with fire, dragonglass, and valyrian steel. And since there isn’t enough of the other two, this is our best shot. But don’t bend the knee. Not yet, at least. Make a pact with the Dragon Queen. You are unwed, and she is twice widowed. Make an offer of marriage, as two independent sovereigns, but do not surrender the crown of the North until the Night’s King is no longer a threat.”

“Sansa, she would never agree to that. You saw her title, she assumes to be queen of seven kingdoms, not six.”

“Jon we need her dragons. And we have nothing to offer her. No soldiers for her war, no gold, and definitely no crops. We can only offer control of the North. And I know you don’t want to be the King in the North, let alone of seven kingdoms, but this may be our only chance at survival.” Sansa was raising her voice now. She knew she shouldn’t yell at her brother, but she needed to make him see.

“Fuck, Sansa, I hate when you are right. I just don’t want to leave Winterfell again. And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Jon, I am here. And so is Rickon. Take Davos, and go to Dragonstone. We will be fine here, for now. The Wall stands between us and the walkers, and we would be preparing the same if you were here.”

“So it will be myself and Davos? That’s a small company to meet a queen,” Jon said.

“You will not be so alone, Jon Snow,” a voice echoed from the doorway. Rickon woke up immediately, and smiled.

“Meera!” yelled Rickon.


	3. Arrival

Meera I

Rickon sprang across the table, and raced across the hall. He stooped to hug her, and she was amazed by how tall he had grown. She told him as much too. Rickon was interrupted from his hug by pressure on his leg. A direwolf pup was nudging him, and then another, and another.

“Where did you find direwolves, Meera? Where have you been? Weren’t Bran, Jojen, Summer, and Hodor with you? Where are they now? Why didn’t they come with you? Why are you in Winterfell?” Rickon bombarded her with questions.

Meera laughed at Rickon’s rapid-fire questioning, but her eyes were sad. “We went to the Wall, to try to find Jon. But we ended up at Queensgate instead, and met a sworn brother named Sam, and a wildling named Gilly. There was a baby there too. We then went north of the Wall, north for a long, long time. On the way, Summer, Jojen, and I took turns scouting and hunting, and on one of the scouting trips furthest north, Summer didn’t come back. Not for a week, at least. When she returned, she eventually gave birth to four pups. I think she must have found another direwolf out there. At any rate, we continued.”

Jon, Sansa, and Davos were looking at her, and she could tell they had questions. Nonetheless, she continued with her story. “We finally reached the cave of the three eyed raven. Jojen,” here she took a deep breath, “Jojen died before we could get him inside the cave. Right as we approached, we were set upon by White Walkers, and Hodor and I barely managed to get Bran inside. I don’t know how long we were inside that cave. It felt like forever. Bran was always with the three eyed raven, and the Children are not very good company. Eventually, Bran saw something. A vision that convinced him it was time to leave. We were getting ready to go, but the Walkers attacked again. One had touched Bran, seen him within a vision, and they broke into the cave. One killed the three eyed raven. Summer died, I think, in the cave, overwhelmed by wights. The pups were in Bran’s sled, to keep him warm, and they weren’t large enough to fight. I pulled Bran out of the cave, with Hodor, and the last Child made the tunnel we were escaping through burst into flames. We got outside, but they kept coming through the tunnel. Hodor, he held the door shut. He held the door so Bran and I could get away. I’m sure he died as well.” Meera was crying at this point. One of the wolves, the black one with sharp green eyes, nuzzled into her palm.

“Visions? Three eyed ravens? Children?” Sansa couldn’t help herself. She had questions, and would not wait.

Meera sniffed, and wiped her eyes. “Yes, visions. Bran is a warg, and a greenseer, like in the stories of old. The three eyed raven was an old man, the most powerful greenseer in the world, before he died, and he was connected to the original heart tree, in the far north of the world. He could see everything. The children of the forest were in the cave with us, and they helped us leave. Now Bran says he is the three eyed raven, though he is not connected physically to the heart tree in the north.”

“And where is Bran now?” asks Sansa. She seemed to be the only one capable of speaking.

“Bran is still north of the wall. One of the pups is with him, Autumn, and your uncle Benjen.”

Now Jon regained his voice. “Benjen? But he has been lost beyond the wall for years.”

“Yes,” said Meera, “The Walkers got him, but the children found him and used old magic to stop the progression. He still has his mind, even if his body is dead.”

“But why did they stay north of the wall?” Sansa asks.

“A combination of things. For one, the children told Benjen that if he, or anyone touched by the Walkers, ventured south of the wall, the old magic that Bran the Builder used to construct the wall would shatter, and the wall would begin to melt. Another reason is that Bran needed to be closer the Night’s King to keep an eye on his movements. It’s easier to warg into an animal that is closer to you.”

“Even if all this is true,” says Sansa, “Why are you in Winterfell? And why did you say that Jon will not go alone? Surely you aren’t planning on going with him.”

Meera sighed. There was so much that needed to be said, and so little that they would believe. She began with what would be easiest. “Bran suggested I come, for multiple reasons. One of them, or two of them, you have already met.” She nodded to the direwolves.

“Are these for us?” Rickon asked. “Does…does Bran know that Shaggy got killed?”

“Yes,” Meera said, “One is for you to raise and train, and the other is for you, my lady.” Meera looks at Sansa, and Sansa looks as if she’s been hit.

“Which one?” asked Sansa hesitantly. But there was no need for her to ask, not really, as the largest of the three wolves goes to her side. It’s the red one, Meera notices, the most aggressive wolf of the litter. But the direwolf pads gently up to Sansa, and lays its massive head in her lap. “Oh, its fur is the color of my hair. I suppose that it’s a sign.”

“The red direwolf for the Red Wolf of the North. She’s the largest of her siblings,” said Meera, “and the most temperamental. But it seems she likes you already.”

“I think, I think I have dreamed about her,” whispers Sansa.

“You probably have, my lady. Bran believes all of his siblings are at least a little gifted in the old magics,” Meera said.

“Meera, why are there three? It’s just Sansa and I here, Jon still has Ghost.”

“Rickon, the black one is mine,” replied Meera.

“Yours?” said Jon. “Why? Direwolves have nothing to do with you.”

“It’s hard to explain. We should probably go somewhere more private,” replied Meera.

“No, whatever is to be said can be said in front of all.”

“Very well,” Meera sighed. “It began 20 years ago, at the tourney at Harrenhall.”


	4. Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon listens.

Jon I  
As Meera spoke about the direwolves, Jon looked at her with interest. She seemed familiar, but out of a distant memory. There was something about the way she moved, and the way she interacted with the direwolves that reminded her of Arya, but Meera had far more control over herself than Arya had. Although, Jon realized, it had been years since he had seen his wild sister, he was 15 when they parted ways, and Arya had been only 11. Too young, he decided, to really compare her to Meera. Still, the feeling of familiarity lingered in Jon’s mind as Meera spoke.  
“It began 20 years ago, at the tourney at Harrenhal. Howland Reed had been bullied by southern squires, and Lyanna Stark had come to his rescue. Neither knew that the scene had a witness, Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar was an interesting man. He was very intelligent, very charming, but had the trademark quirks of the Targaryen dynasty. Rhaegar was obsessed with a prophecy, a prophecy about the return of dragons from his line. He was convinced he must have three children. And seeing Lyanna that night, he knew that she would make his second bride, and give him the third child Elia Martell could not. The next day, the joust began. Entering the lists on the second day was a knight no one knew. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. That knight rode down the knights whose squires had bullied Howland Reed, but by that evening, the Knight of the Laughing Tree was gone. Aerys, the Mad King, believed the knight to be part of a plot to dethrone him, and sent out a search party to find the Knight of the Laughing Tree. As far as most know, the only thing ever found of the mystery knight was his shield, leaning against a tree. Rhaegar had been in the search party as well, and found more than he let on. In the Stark tent, the prince found Lyanna removing mismatched armor, with the faint purple of bruises beginning to show.”  
Sansa spoke softly here. “So Aunt Lyanna was the knight. We’ve always wondered, Father rarely spoke of the tourney, and never of the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”  
“Yes, my lady. May I continue?” Sansa nodded at Meera, and the story went on. “We don’t really know what happened after they met, but we know that Rhaegar was enchanted. Even more than the protection of Howland Reed, he was amazed that Lyanna had entered the joust. All the realm knows that on the final day of the tourney, he crowned your aunt with blue winter roses, and unknowingly began a rebellion. A year later, Lyanna was gone, and so was Rhaegar. He took her to the Tower of Joy, in Dorne, where they were married.”  
The Starks paled, but only Davos was able to respond. “Not to be rude, my lady, but I’m quite sure she was abducted. That’s all anyone has ever said, and no one has ever said otherwise. Even if they were, they started a war by running away, why does it matter 20 years later?”  
“It matters, Lord Seaworth, because the product of their union is a contender for the Iron Throne. A legitimate Targaryen heir, who would have all the backing of the North behind it. Lyanna was strong, but she was young, and not used to the Dornish weather. She fell ill after giving birth, and was barely hanging on to life by the time Lord Stark and Howland Reed found her, and the children.”  
“Twins,” breathed Sansa. Jon’s mind was racing, struggling to hold all these new discoveries. “What happened to the children?” asked Jon.  
Meera looked at him with a deep sadness. “Eddard Stark and Howland Reed brought back the babes, a boy and a girl. As they were the only ones who knew the true parentage, they decided to split up the children. One went with Howland to Greywater Watch, where it was never questioned that a baby girl appeared. The other, the other Eddard Stark claimed as his bastard and brought him to Winterfell.” Meera looked directly at Jon, and he felt all the blood leave his face.  
“Oh,” Jon said before everything went black. 

 

Jon woke in the familiar chambers of his childhood. It was warm in the room, but a sharp breeze came in from the open window. He shook his head, as if to clear the dreams from his mind. He looked around, and found Sansa, hunched over asleep. It was late, Jon realized, and she had fallen asleep reading supply reports. He moved gently, trying not to wake her, but she woke anyway.  
“Jon! You’re awake. We were so worried about…”  
Jon interrupted her, “How long was I out?”  
Sansa hesitated before replying. “About six hours.”  
“6 hours! Why did no one wake me?”  
Sansa gave him a withering look, “It’s not as if we didn’t try, Jon. No one could wake you, not even Ghost.”  
Jon nodded. “What Meera said, about Lyanna and Rhaegar, it true?”  
“As far as we can tell, it’s not untrue. After we put you to bed, Meera said Bran had had a vision of Father placing some items in Aunt Lyanna’s tomb. Rickon seemed ready to believe her, and offered to go down with Lord Davos to pry open the tomb. They’re still down there.”  
“I see. And you? What do you believe Sansa?”  
Sansa studied him before she answered. “I, I want to believe her, for your sake and Mother’s as well. And Meera does look like you. Curly black hair, sharp nose. Her eyes are green, but she claims it is a dye and will fade over the course of a couple weeks. I don’t know for sure. I will wait to see what the tomb contains.”  
“Sansa, if it is true, what do we tell the Northern lords?”  
Sansa looked resigned. She had considered this already, Jon realized.  
“We tell them the truth, and you and Meera go south to treat with Daenerys.”  
“And the North? Who is to lead?”  
“Rickon is the heir that is present, even if Bran is alive. He rules, although a castellan and advisors would be necessary, obviously.”  
Jon thought about this for a moment, and realized the answer was right in front of him. “No. You will rule. You are the eldest, and Rickon is a child. Besides, you are experienced and can control the lords better than anyone I know.”  
Sansa looked at Jon as if he had spoken in Dothraki, but then the cloud cleared from her eyes and she nodded. “If that is what you want.”  
Jon looked straight at her. “It is. I want you.”


End file.
